


A Beekeeper and His Blogger

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Beekeeper Sherlock, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Molstrade, Retirementlock, Sussex, The boys are very happy, everyone is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:35:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, and a cottage in Sussex with bees. A glimpse into how lucky John Watson really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beekeeper and His Blogger

The one thing that John truly missed was the violin. The way the soft strains of Tchaikovsky or Beethoven would float about the flat in the darkest hours of the night. The way Sherlock’s fingers danced upon the strings even when he wasn’t playing, tapping tunes onto the neck as he perched in his chair. The violin wasn’t used anymore, just stayed in the corner of the sitting room, collecting longing gazes. It really ought to be stored, but Sherlock still liked to pick it up and hold it on his good days. John could see the way he missed the feel of the bow in his hand, but with his knuckles swollen with arthritis, Sherlock couldn’t play the way he used to. Yes, John missed the violin. But it went without saying that he would give up many things for Sherlock Holmes and the loss of a violin after years of hearing the instrument was a very small charge. John, you see, was terribly lucky. He got to stand in the doorway of the bedroom and look in at his partner, marvel at the way the morning sun played upon the body tangled in the white cover. 

It had been three decades since Sherlock had come back from the dead, and two from the time John had appeared on the doorstep of 221b with his bags for the very last time. 

No, John was very lucky. He could stand with a mug of steaming tea, and watch as dust motes floated through sunbeams streaming in from the open window. He could listen for the buzzing of Sherlock’s bees in the yard, the distant sound of traffic and know that even though he wasn’t in London and they didn’t take any case under a nine, that he was content. 

He could go into the bedroom and sit gingerly on the bed, running his fingers through dark hair that was steadily turning white, completely skipping the stages of grey. And forbid the thought that any of those thick curls would fall out. He could curl up on the bed, and allow his hands to drift over the stretch of pale back peeking out from the blankets. He could trace the paths of blood flow, the stretch of muscles under the skin. He could tap along the spine of his partner and Sherlock would never stir, too busy catching up on years of missed sleep. John enjoyed propping himself up on the headboard with a book, glasses hanging about his neck and listening to the man breathe. Sherlock never woke without serious prompting, but once awake, he was a torrent of energy. He’d be dashing about the house, the yard, the hives, the orchard. He had developed ten different flavours of jam since they had moved out to the country and now bottled honey to sell at market. He had started tracking the flights of the bees, marking down their journeys into the clover field next door. John would follow him around, scratching out notes for his next novel in a small leather book. There was nothing John liked more than watching the man collect honey, in his odd white beekeeping suit. The long coat had been retired years ago, and now hung in the entry way closet, awaiting the next rare trip to London. 

The skull still sat on their mantle, looking down at them with empty eye sockets as they curled against one another on the settee. Sherlock would tuck his feet, long and bare with chilled toes under John’s thigh. John would squawk and retaliate by pushing Sherlock around until the younger man’s head rested upon his lap. Sherlock would scowl and deduce how John just wanted to force him into watching terrible telly, when they could just as easily go to bed and cuddle. ‘Cuddle’ was emitted from Sherlock’s mouth with great derision, but he never left the couch, and so John counted it as a win. They would eventually go to bed. They’d clean their teeth and change, John climbing onto the mattress and settling against his pillows Sherlock climbing up after him and nuzzling into the crook of his arm. John would read while Sherlock counted the beats of his heart, and right as they turned off the lights for bed, he would lean down and press a kiss to Sherlock’s brow. Even after twenty plus years, Sherlock still looked surprised. His mouth would shape itself into a open circle, emitting a soft ‘oh’ noise, and he’d look up at John with surprised eyes. He’d raise up and kneel over John, kissing him deeply as he tugged the cord for the light. Once they were shrouded in darkness, he’d lie down, back to John’s chest, their hands clasped and resting on his hip. Like an octopus, Sherlock would take over the whole bed after they fell asleep, limbs sprawling everywhere. John had given up fighting it. Despite popular opinion, they weren’t lovers. They’d tried once, but as Sherlock said, he wasn’t “wired for the physical’. John, one day, sat down and showed him the definition of asexuality. Sherlock took it as he did all other facts that fit his needs, with hours of research on the topic and then a sudden acceptance. One late night, months after the fact, Sherlock thanked John in a very sleepy voice, for showing him that he “wasn’t broken” before curling up in his usual position and dropping into a deep sleep. John didn’t sleep that night. He lay there as Sherlock wiggled all over the bed, doing nothing but watching his partner. It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand how someone who was so unique, could have ever thought he was broken, but more that he couldn’t understand how no one had cared enough to point out that it wasn’t true. 

A few years after their move to Sussex, in May, John fell and twisted his ankle out in the orchard while walking. Sherlock had been tending the bees, and heard his cry of pain. In the end, John was fine, but the boys got a dog to “notify me if anything goes wrong, like in that ridiculous movie, John’. Sherlock and John had opened the shelter door to chaos, one of the dogs having escaped its handler. The copper ball of fur made a beeline for the men as they entered. Sherlock, being Sherlock, had dropped to his knees and spoken with the dog. The dog in turn, a female Irish setter mix, sat immediately, tongue lolling about as the man spoke. John and the shelter workers looked on in amazement as the pair communed, Sherlock speaking slowly and patting the dogs flank. He then looked up at John and smiled so wide, John knew it was a lost cause. The staff were glad to have the little sprite off their hands, as she apparently was the reincarnation of Harry Houdini, always escaping and wreaking havoc. John thought that this sounded very familiar and accepted his new charge with grace. So now there was John and Sherlock, bees, an orchard, and a dog named Lady, all at a little cottage in Sussex. 

Greg drove Molly and Mrs.Hudson out to visit one sunny day in July. He sat with John outside on a large striped blanket. They basked in the sun as Sherlock played with Lady by the entry to the orchard. Sweet Molly, with laugh lines around her eyes, was walking slowly with Mrs. Hudson among the hives, peering in at the busy little creatures and chattering about the latest developments in molecular research. It was family and it was comfortable, even as Greg moaned about his new desk job.

When the visitors finally left, the sun was just dropping in the sky, and John stayed where he was on a picnic blanket. Sherlock and Lady were sprawled next to him, panting, the last sunbeams glinting on their sweaty coats. 

“I had another dog once,” Sherlock said, “His name was Redbeard.”

John listened as Sherlock talked about his first friend, sitting where he was until he grew stiff. When the stars began to pepper the sky, he slid down to join Sherlock, resting his greying head on his love’s shoulder. They fell asleep there that night, waking early with the sun, shivering and covered in dewdrops. This was how Sherlock operated these days. He would speak for hours, at the strangest moments, as if all the rummaging in his mind to make room for new memories knocked loose old ones. John had learned about an allergy to mango this way, about the small pink tattoo that Mycroft hid under his suits. He had learned serious things like how Greg Lestrade had arrested Sherlock more than once for his own protection. How Mycroft had kept pumping the blood through Sherlock’s heart once, while waiting for paramedics to appear after Sherlock’s third overdose.

He learned how Sherlock’s parents were normal by many standards but that his mother was a brilliant mathematician. He learned that they were confused by their two boys, but were proud and happy and accepting of who they had grown up to be. He had met them a few times. Once, when Sherlock had just come back. Once when Mycroft had ended up in the hospital to have his gallbladder taken out. John’s favorite memory of Sherlock’s parents was the day he married their youngest son. Sherlock’s father had taken him aside and congratulated him. Sherlock’s mother had taken him aside and threatened him to kill or seriously maim him in no less than twenty different ways, if he dared to hurt her little boy. She then smiled and informed him that she knew of just as many ways to dispose of a body. John never again questioned the relation of Mycroft to Sherlock, having undeniable proof that the man did indeed share at least one parent with his husband. 

Their wedding day had been nothing like his wedding to Mary. It had been small, and intimate, out in their garden. Only the very important people were there, and despite Sherlock’s grumbling, Mycroft officiated. John never told Sherlock that he caught Mycroft in the back of the house, hidden in shadows, smoking afterwards. He didn’t tell Sherlock that he had caught the man crying silently. And he certainly didn’t tell Sherlock that he had patted Mycroft on the arm, took the packet of cigarettes away and left the man to think by himself. Mycroft married almost a year later, and if anyone mentioned the matching rings he and his PA wore, they weren’t very happy with the outcome. 

They had their first official dance as a couple that day. The strains of a song Sherlock had composed and recorded rippling through the air. It was strong and sweet, a perfect contradiction, just like John. It was long and graceful and perfectly unusual like Sherlock. The song fit them to a tee, as they swayed, wrapped in each other's arms. Mrs. Hudson cried. Greg swore that he wasn’t crying. Molly was dry eyed, soft and happy gaze resting on them as she wrapped her arm around Greg and handed him a handkerchief.  
The night of their wedding, Sherlock lay in John’s arms, spinning his new ring around his finger slowly. He paused and looked up at John. “You’re the only one John. You know that right?” 

John smiled and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I know.” 

“I love you, John.” 

“I love you too, Sherlock. Going to sleep, or will you stay up to watch the mould a bit longer?”

And that was how Sherlock and John lived. They went together like waves and the moon, or the sky and sea. Both very different, both strong and stubborn, but both better because of the existence of the other. 

Yes, John Watson was very lucky, and despite going gray prematurely from living with a madman, finding toads in the laundry and fingers in the toaster, John knew this. And he thanked God everyday for letting him live long enough to meet the irascible Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it my lovelies. Will eventually be a podfic as well, so stay tuned to hear my voice.  
> And as always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> 


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